


At the other side of the mirror

by ThePinkMug



Series: PersonaX [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Japanese setting, M/M, Prostitution, Social Issues, Yakuza, possible sensitive material
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 10:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18827287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePinkMug/pseuds/ThePinkMug
Summary: Homeless and penniless, the runaway boy was forced to find a job in a bar serving extra menus for its customer.However, he wasn't the type to give in to his fate.10 years after, he grew up to be a part of the mafia family-the same family who sold him to prostitution.Alternate chapters for alternating timeline.





	1. The Night Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This work was particularly written as a part of the main villain's lore in a Persona-based Role-Playing group.  
> This work contains sensitive material such as boys prostitution. There may be mild language and suggestive contents in some of the chapters. Viewers' discretion is advised.
> 
> Works in progress.

* * *

 

_ Were humans not born social beings _

_ Would we know loneliness? _

* * *

“Speak.”

Shimamura dropped his cigar and crushed the tip with his shoes. The gravel made quite a cracking noise as he did so. He shoved his hands deep in the pocket of his favourite beige coat, his eyes were fixed on the ground at whatever remained of the cigar. In front of him, a man seemingly in his twenty was sitting on the ground, his legs spread, and one of his eyes was black and swollen. His shirt was in a total mess. The collar had traces of dried blood and the first few buttons were nowhere to be found. 

“You can just tell the truth and I won’t have to do this, you know,” Shimamura spoke again. For someone who had just cold-heartedly let someone beaten up to a bloody pulp, his tone was rather sickeningly soft and emotionless. Sure, he may be small in stature, but his power lied not in his fist. 

The man in front of him raised his middle finger and grinned. Shimamura raised his brows. One of the two men behind him took out a knife but the brunet raised his palm to halt them. He quietly squatted, then looked straight into the young man’s swollen eyes. He cracked neither a smile or a frown.

The lad in front of him was used to be one of his subordinates in an operation to smuggle a few kilograms of goods from South East Asia to Japan via ports. He was brought aboard by his elder brother for  _ work _ , and even though both had quite a track record in shoplifting and petty thieves, they seemed earnest enough for him. Besides, he couldn’t refuse someone work, knowing how does it feel to have nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep.

They have been working together for at least a year now, and while they have never had big feuds throughout the operations, they have never really liked each other either. Shimamura, true to his style, had been avoiding heads on confrontations and collision as much as he could. He preferred to stick to his  _ modus operandi _ and clean up whatever mess that may follow.

It was during the last operation they found out the said lad had run away with some of the goods and money during a transit. Nobody knows when or how did he actually did it. All they knew was the lad had vanished along with the cocaines when they found the thievery out.

“You know how I am. I may as well offer you something else in return for your honesty.” Shimamura said again.

“Fuck off,” the young man spat at him. Shimamura jerked back and wiped the mix of saliva and blood off his face. He looked at the back of his hand for a second as if contemplating. 

Slap! With a scowl, he back-slapped the youth hard enough to send him off balance. Such a display of manner!

“Listen, you mannerless punk, I am here to help you, in case your small brain had not noticed,” Shimamura clucked his tongue. He pulled the lad by his collar. “Pickpocketing and shoplifting is a thing, thievery is another. Now speak up. Where are the goods?”

 

“Nowhere,” the lad grinned and cackled. “I use them all up, you see. You can’t find them anymore,  _ brother. _ ”

Shimamura narrowed his eyes. It seemed like the answer caught him off guard. Who would think a lad in his twenty could use up several hundred thousand yen and a kilogram of drugs in a few nights alone? 

“Scared shit, now, I see, huh?” The lad grinned. He defiantly glared right into Shimamura’s eyes. Beneath the swollen lids were both hatred and satisfaction, “now they will think you are the one who stole them all.”

“I see,” Shimamura released his grip and stood back up. “I guess that makes things easier. Too bad,  _ brother _ . I would have offered you a way out if you just nicely say something, but now I would have to send your left ear to your beloved older brother.”

Shimamura gestured to the two men following him to apprehend the lad as he turned to leave the scene. They went past him and marched right towards the lad. Shimamura took out his cigarette box, shake it and pulled one out. The cigar was white and slim, and it fitted between his teeth like a fish between a shark's teeth. He lit it up, his hands trembling as he did so. Even from between the dull tapping sound of his boots heels against the ground and the roar of the subway passing the bridge above them, he could still hear the last things the punk said to him.

“Fine, chop me up. You rich and privileged people know nothing about being the underdog!”

 


	2. The Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He survived the fire.

2002, Winter. 

A small, red demon stood in the middle of a burning room. An ivory  _ Hannya _ mask stood in place of its face, its eyes reflected the blaze roaring about the place. Behind him was a lad, cowering with his hands covering his mouth, before he was dead bodies and above him was a monster with its face shaped like a cat. 

The cat struck down, and the demon held it back. The lad behind them scoots away to find the nearest exit. There’s no way he could win against them alone. Everyone else had been slaughtered and he’s not that powerful. He must run.

The lad coughed and made his way to the nearest window he could find. He tried to shake it open but it didn’t bug. He tried smashing the glass, but as one of his upper arm had been burnt, it only gave him excruciating pain. He turned to watch the monster cat and the red demon fighting. He tried to think of a way out. His face was blackened with soot and smeared with blood, but from among them, his eyes glowed yellow like amber in the fire. 

The monster cat struck down again, but this time the little devil simply ran away. Instead of fighting against the cat, it dashed, then crashed against the window. The glasses exploded, its shards burst and flew into the flame. The lad jumped out. 

The red demon vanished. Only the monstrous cat was left standing in the room, watching the events unfolded in complete silence.

***

The lad ran and fell. He looked back at the burning building and saw hundreds of white lights bursting from the flame. They decorated the sky like shooting stars. Their lights lit up the dark frozen town. They were souls returning to their bodies. They were souls freed from the confinement of their monsters devouring them, now that the soul eaters are dead except him.

Except him. Now they would notice that some people won’t have their soul back, all because of him.    
  
That’s alright, it’s his warning. They killed his friends, they took away his mother, they hit his sisters. It’s just fair that he too, will take away what was precious to them, and he will take more of it. 

The lad turned and made his way to the nearby forest. He strode and staggered through the thick snow, feet aching and shoulder hurting. The snow hissed against his feet, and the hiss echoed in the quiet forest. His breath was white. Everything started to get blurry. He couldn’t even feel the biting frost on his naked feet anymore.

The forest path cleared and he arrived in a temple. For a second he was thinking of the gods and the curses bestowed upon him, and whether the temple would ever shelter a demon under its roof. He didn’t get to hear the answer yet. Everything around him spun and went black.


	3. The Lonely Man and the Price of Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: uwanted sexual advances / molestation.

* * *

2013, Spring. The plain ceiling of the hotel room stared back at him. The silver polished downlight above the bed looked like a pair of eyes silently judging the adultery he committed half an hour ago. 

Who actually sold their body: he, or the man next to him, really? He did it partly for the money, partly out of duty–for he had been serving this particular man for several years. On the other hand, it seems like his client had sold himself to the pleasure of committing adultery despite his marital status. 

Perhaps what was more bizarre was the fact Shimamura served not only him but also his wife. Once as she lay naked beneath him, she told him that his husband could not provide her with the pleasure she dreamed of anymore. At that time the young man simply smiled and asked what kind of pleasure she wanted and perhaps ... he could fulfil them. Whether the spouse knew both of them had frequented the same prostitute for their pleasure was not his business, but sometimes it did concern him. 

The young man sighed and pulled himself up, then proceed to take the remaining leather strap off his wrist. The strap found its way to the nightstand. The buckle knocked on the surface of the nightstand with a soft thud. He rubbed his wrist. They had turned reddish from the constant friction but nothing hurt so far. He checked the time. The clock had just struck twelve and like clockwork, Tuesday had just become Wednesday.

“Leaving so soon?”

Shimamura turned and smiled as a response. He stepped out of the blanket and started wearing his pants. The red spider lily tattoo on his back is now fully visible under the dim glow of the night lamp, turned on by his client barely a minute ago. The bright red stood in contrast with his pale skin, and if that was not striking enough, a barcode was tattooed above the halo surrounding the flower petal. Under normal circumstance, it would invite a few sideways glances, whispered questions, and perhaps, apparent avoidance. Only here in the presence of his client, it served merely as décor to the skin.

Red spider lily. In the language of flower, it reads as 'abandonment’ and 'never to meet again’. It was said to be the very flower that grows in hell. Such a lonely meaning for a lovely flower. 

“Well, that was such a pleasure! By the way, you haven’t talked to me about the stolen goods again. Did you find the culprit?”

“I know who did it, more or less,” Shimamura slowly buttoned his shirt up, seemingly deep in thought. “I will update you later again, but not now.”

The man chuckled and turned to take a box of the cigarette he had left on his side of the nightstand. A few seconds later, the all too familiar scent of burning tobacco wafted in the air as smoke leaked out of his lips. 

This man, goes by all the too common name Kobayashi, was a rather short man in his 50s. Though he was not gifted in terms of height, he was surely gifted in terms of look. He has a strong jawline and high cheekbone, his eyes were in perfect almond shape, and he has gotten a pair of the much coveted double lids, along with long, albeit thin lashes. He had trimmed his hair neatly, with no extra stubbles or whatsoever on the sideburns. In contrast with Shimamura’s thinness that made him looked fragile, the man had quite a mix of muscle and fat on his arms and belly. 

“Come and have one,” he offered.

Shimamura didn’t promptly follow the order. Instead, he strode to the balcony and opened the window. The chilly night breeze brought in fresh air to the room, releasing the otherwise suffocating smoke.

He took his coat and bag from the sofa, then approached his client to receive the offered cigarette. Kobayashi even bothered to raise his silver Zippo and offered to light the cigarette himself, a gesture rarely came from someone considered high in position. Rather taken aback, Shimamura hesitated for a second. he threw a questioning glance to study the man's expression before cracking a smile and quietly followed his wishes. 

Kobayashi lit the cigarette then took it away. Taking the chance while Shimamura was frozen from surprise, he kissed the young man on the lips and grabbed his crotch, rubbing whatever was there between his fingers. Shimamura jerked and nearly lost his balance. He gasped but quickly managed to prop himself against the edge of the bed. 

“Sir–” the younger man managed to pull away only after a few seconds. The surprise had rendered him powerless.

“Surprised, aren’t we?” Kobayashi chuckled and returned the lit cigarette to him.

Shimamura received the cigarette and managed to crack a smile at the jokes. It was not funny, not to him at the very least. Yet who is he to open his mouth and voice a protest? So he merely forced himself to think of it as merely a joke between long-time business partner. As Kobayashi waved his hand, still laughing, Shimamura gave him a bow and left the room.

***

This city had never fallen asleep. Even after the people in it spent all their day working or their night drinking, this city had never slept. On the day it was the phone rings and the clicking heels of men and woman in black suits. On the night it was the neon lights and LED signs above men in silver blazers and women in black dresses. Everyone in this city stays up for work, for themselves, for someone else, or for anything they would happily justify. 

Shimamura watched the smoke from his cigarette danced in the air, then decided to put it out. After such a job, he would feel nothing but emptiness in his chest. He wasn’t sad or ashamed. He had ceased feeling anything about selling his own body for someone else’s pleasure a long time ago. Maybe he was just exhausted? But as far as he knew, such feeling of emptiness has been his friend since God knows when. It has never truly there when he was still a teenager, not as pronounced at least, but it has never been truly away too. These days he didn’t even try to avoid it. It just comes and goes as it pleases. 

There was a newspaper stall next to where he was smoking. The latest evening paper was displayed on the table, along with some tabloids and magazines. The brunet took a glance of the titles. The usual political stuff, the minister feuds, the rise in employment, the new debates on this and that bans, and lastly on the corner was a moving story coming from a small city called Meiseki. 

_ Meiseki, huh… _

Shimamura stopped at the title. He reached to his pocket and found some coins in his coin wallet. With the sweetest smile he could manage, he asked the lady behind the stall to give him a can of coke and the evening newspaper. The lady nodded and gave him the last piece in the cooling case, didn’t even bother to carefully count the coins he placed on the table. He rolled the paper and slipped it underneath his arm, then proceed to crack the soda can open as soon as he left the stall.


	4. The Refugee from Meiseki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meiseki is a fictional city set in Hokkaido, Japan.

2002, winter. The temperature had dipped to five degrees that evening, rather cold weather in comparison to Tokyo’s usual winter chill. There was no snow. Anyway, everyone knows that there is less snow in Tokyo than it is the Meiseki, where it snows at least three days a week during winter. 

Shimamura tightened his coat and squatted to avoid the cold, His breath had turned white with every huff and puff, and he could feel his hand getting numb under the jacket sleeve. He had no gloves, hat or shawl on, and beneath the jacket was only a tattered, single piece of a shirt he wore when he ran from Meiseki. His shoulder and arm still hurt from the severe burns too. 

He’s alone now. Nowhere to go, nowhere to live. With his head still half hidden in his jacket high collar, he eyed the people walking to and fro right in front of his eyes. What to do now? Beg for money? Looking at a place to live? Damn, his stomach had started to rumble as well. Perhaps before all that, he should find a way to feed himself. Just a single piece of bread is okay. Even a chocolate bar sounds very filling right now. 

He sighed, his eyes followed a woman in a very nice suit walked past him, her hair was trimmed neatly, her coat had no crease on it, and her shoes were shiny.  _ Damn _ , he thought,  _ must be nice living like these people. They could eat whatever they want, anytime they need to _ .

The boy ceased looking at the woman and started scanning his surrounding. There was a convenience store right after the street crossing. In crowded places like this, they would have some little things stocked on their shelves, right? So he promptly got up and stretched his legs, pulled his hood on to hide his face and began making his way towards the store. He slipped and nearly tumble down at the crossing and had to apologize to the man next to him for nearly crashing into him. With ears reddened from embarrassment, he hurried down the road and into the said store.

The first thing he noticed upon entering was the security camera. It was high enough to spy on the entire space, even behind the lining shelves. The cashier was a young girl seemingly in her early twenty, no doubt a university student working in her day off. She was busy with her phone.

Shimamura made her way first to the chilled goods and pretended to check on the price. There were sandwiches and sweet rolls, cake and salad stacked on one end, then various juices on the other. They all looked enticing. The lad bit his lips and gulped his saliva down. Maybe later when he found a job. Right now he needed to focus. 

He turned away. The pain on his shoulder is a little bit too distracting, so was the throbbing hunger.

Next was the snack stall, but the packaging would be too noisy when he pocketed them. Some of them couldn’t fit too. The energy bar, however, will be a good option. So he took one and pretend to look at the packaging, then slipped it into his jacket sleeve as he returned it to the shelves. 

By the time he sneaked out of the store, he had a small pack of chocolate chip cookie and a pack of energy bar in his right pocket. He had somehow managed to steal a pack of tuna onigiri too. His hand shivered and slipped as he pressed on the door automatic lock. His heart was drumming hard as if it was ready to leap out of his rib cages. Still, he took a deep breath and stepped out of the store as calmly as he could. He counted his steps, then as soon as the store was out of his sight, he took off running. He dashed past the crowds; his white breath trailed off him as he pushed people aside. He did not even dare to look back to see if there was actually anyone chasing him at all. He just knew he had to run. He had to run far and fast.

Shimamura reached a quiet back alley and halted. He turned, panting and frantic, trying to see if there was anyone else but him. Nothing was in his tail. The noises from the main street had died down too even though it was literally only a few meters away from where he stood. The alley was quite as if the entrance there was an entrance to a different dimension.   

The evening set. 

He crumbled down and inhaled a deep breath. His legs were shaking. The chilly winter air hurt his nose, but way more than that, his arms and legs hurt from the sudden run. His heart was still pounding against his ribs too. Well, at least, the food in his pocket was safe. The weight pulling on his jacket confirmed it all.

Slowly he crossed his legs and took the  _ onigiri _ out. The side had been mushed a little but other than that, it was perfect. With a rather weak grin, he pulled the red tag and tore the plastic cover apart. The  _ nori _ was rough and his hand was dirty, but the salt sparkled under the traces of sunlight reflecting off the air conditioner unit. He took a half portion worth of bite. It was a bit salty at first, but the sweetness of the rice came bursting right after. He could smell the tuna and the mayonnaise behind his throat. They may be a little cold, but he couldn’t ask for anything better

He took his second bite. It was still as delicious, but as his stomach began to fill, the realisation that he had nothing else after this piece of  _ onigiri _ began to flood in as well. Beads of tears started to form on the edges of his eyes. He wiped them away with his sleeves and went on chewing. His chest tightened as he gulped down the rice. He took the last bite. His hand trembled. By the time the food began to travel down his throat for the last time, his face was already covered in tears and snoot. 

Big boys don’t cry they say. Bullshit. He had nowhere to go and no place to sleep. Let him at least had the freedom to cry his hurting heart out.


	5. Thinking of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild language.

2013, Spring. The apartment door sang along some cheeky tune and a young man's figure emerged. His cheeks were flushed and his nose was running. He closed the door with his feet. He had a roll of the evening paper in his hand and an empty soda can on the other. 

Immediately after coming in he threw the paper on the coffee table and the soda can on the trash bin. He didn’t even bother to turn on the light. He turned the TV on instead. The screen became the only illumination in the room, it lit up the wall with a streak of bluish light that blinked and move across the wall. Dull waves of laughter poured from the speaker. It seemed like the schedule was set for a late night family drama. There were people around a small dining table and one of them was arranging a set of simple home cooked food. He placed a bowl of rice, soup and a cup of water for each person. 

Shimamura paused. Standing still with one hand still in the pocket and the other on the remote, he stared at the tv screen in silence.

_ So envious. _

He had never had a proper family. When he did, they had never really had proper food, at least not like how they show it on tv screen. Now he can eat anything he wants and buy everything he needs but still, he found himself envying the tv screen in his empty house. he was still brimming with resentment. It looked so warm and lively there, it is so cold and lonely here. Of course, he could rent a family if he wanted to, or a girlfriend—did that a lot—but it all comes for a price, with an act, and within a time limit. They all slipped between his fingers way too easily. 

Even getting laid didn't help. They are all a mere physical pleasure without attachment. They say sex is a form of communication, but sometimes communication does not even mean dialogues. He wanted a dialogue. All the people gave him were empty speeches.

Shimamura looked at his hand. He thought it will be nice if he can get married too one day. But who on earth would want a broken good coming from an unregistered manufacturer? Plus he was a misfit. He's not at all manly. The only  _ manly  _ things about him were the money in his bank, the dick hanging between his legs and the fact that he had a lot of sex. Maybe. He could still feel Kobayashi's hand on his crotch. It's disgusting.

Ah, it made him feel dizzy and sick to the stomach. Quickly he tore his eyes away from the screen and flicked through the channels. One of the stations was broadcasting late night comedy. He smiled a bit at the comic, then went off to get a can of beer and read the paper he bought solely for the mention of Meiseki. That town used to be his home. Now if he ever returned there, it would not be for nostalgia. It would be for revenge.

The TV distracted him from reading. He was just about to turn it off when a call came in. He stared at the number for a while, then flipped his phone upside down, cancelling the call. Not in the mood for any form of socialization at all. No, thank you.

In the end, he let the tv talked on its own, just to make it less quiet,  _ less lonely _ . He used to live with so many people in one room, sharing his bed with other prostitutes in a small dorm that looked more like an animal shelter instead of a proper house.  It was warm, though. There are people who were like him, minus the bleeding burn wound. Those were good times. At least there were people he could share the absurdity of life with. There were camaraderies. There were ways to keep oneself sane. 

Shimamura took a pair of scissors and cut the Meiseki article. He bent over the table and carefully guided the blade along the paragraph border. The paper floated for a fraction of second before making a quiet landing on the wooden surface. He stared at it for a full second before putting the paper and the scissors aside. He read the article over again, then brought it to his desk where a leather-bound notebook was lying next to a closed laptop.

The book was half filled; the first half of its edges had crumpled and expanded, with pieces of paper and tags peeking from between the pages. The mess stood in contrast with the last half, still straight and pristine. One can see that he had filled the book with clippings of articles, advertisements, and letters coming from Meiseki. There were pictures and postcards too. Some of them had been marked and written over with black marker. 

It has been eleven years since he ran from Meiseki, wounded and alone. It has been eleven years since he arrived here with his shoulder burned and bleeding, and himself dying from hunger. Since then, not even a day has passed without him reminiscing on the fire blazing beneath feet of monsters looming above the burning room. He still remembered how the smoke choked him as he made his escape, how he could only feel burning pain on his shoulder and legs, how he had to spend the night trembling in fear of death and anger to life. That night he had promised that one day, one day he will return to Meiseki and exact his vengeance. Eleven years had passed since that day, and now he’s more than ready. Meiseki will meet its demise for the last time.


	6. This Small Boy

2002.

He needed to get a job.

But who would hire a dirty, homeless boy with barely any skill or experience? He did have both, though, but not one he can say out loud. Plus he had nothing nice to wear, and his shoulder hurt much. The treatment he got from the monks was not enough. It may be infected soon, and even if it did not get infected, it would leave him scarred for life. How the hell would he find a job looking filthy like this?

Shimamura sighed. He had done crying. He couldn’t sleep because the weather was too cold even nearby an air conditioner exhaust fan. Whatever. There should be a train station across the street where he could wash his face, drink some water and clean up. So he rose. He dusted his pants and wiped his tears. He tried to straighten the wrinkle on his jacket as much as he can but it doesn’t bug. Irritated, he just gave up after a minute trying. 

The cold wind blew as he went out of the alley and descended the stair to the nearest station. Nobody noticed him as he slipped into the public toilet. They were all too busy crossing the floor to the train platform; their black suit, black shoes, black bag blended into one anonymous crowd flowing through the place like how robots would. He glanced at them and hoped one day he could live a normal life like that. Who cares if he lost himself in the process? One does not need to stand out to survive.

The cold water splash on his face woke him up. He cleaned up the gunk on the corner of his eyes and looked at his own reflection in the mirror. There he saw a young boy with messy, oily black hair. His eyes were sunken, and one can clearly see shadows under the eye bags. How many nights had it been since the last peaceful sleep? His cheekbones were protruding out, and a few zits had appeared around in his jaws. Shimamura hated the boy. God, he hated him so much. Why can’t he have better luck? Why wasn’t he born in a normal family under normal circumstances? Why was life so cruel to him? 

Forget wallowing, he had no time for that! The young man yanked some tissue paper and pat his face dry. He gurgled some water, cleared his throat, wet his hair to have it look at least a bit neat, and once again straightened his jacket. Taking one last glance to the boy in the mirror, he inhaled a deep breath and steeled his will. It’s decided. He just had to try to start somewhere. He survived years of bullying, he survived a massacre, he survived his childhood. He  _ had _ to survive this one too. It just occurred to him that if he asked around, he could land a job somewhere. Anywhere as long as they give him a place to sleep. Anything. Even if he had to sell his body, it’s okay.

***

“I am sorry, but we don’t need any more workers,” the man said.

“This is not a homeless shelter, I am sorry but you may have to look somewhere else. Have a good evening,” the woman said.

The door was closed on his face. Shimamura sighed and leant on the wall outside the restaurant he was just rejected from, exhausted. As he had expected, it wasn’t easy. He looked way too scrawny and weak for construction works and most other places wouldn’t let him sleep in their kitchen or back storage even if he’s hired. 

What to do now. The sun has set and it would be nighttime soon. 

The brunet sighed and took out a piece of a chocolate bar he had again stolen from the nearby convenience store. His stomach was growling from hunger. A bit of sugar should satisfy it for a while. 

The lad took a bite and walked out of the back alley once more. The air there was so still and suffocating, and he needed to clear his head. The street had been bustling with people coming home from work again, just like how it was in the morning, only less stern, less rigid. Shimamura halted and marvelled at the bustling sight. He was born and raised in a small city, and though his birthplace had a rush hour, it can never be compared to the one in big cities. Everybody looked busy here. Busy and lonely—at least that's how he felt. Maybe it was because he’s a lonely man as well, but even so, he couldn’t help but think it’s so easy to lose yourself in this crowd. It’s so easy to be anonymous here. 

He slipped into the crowd. He’s anonymous too now.

Shimamura stopped in front of an electronic store. The blink and glow of the television screens stacked on top of each other at the window display stole his attention. Instead of connecting the screens to make one huge display, the store had decided to let them each operated on their own. Twenty-four screens, twenty-four the same news anchor, twenty-four identical news. Shimamura looked up to try seeing the topmost screen. There were no speakers outside. All he can see was the newswoman silently open and closed, stretch and shrink her mouth to form what would be syllables, then sentences, then news. He blinked. She was beautiful, the newswoman.

The screen changed. Shimamura’s eyes widened. The name ‘Meiseki’ appeared simultaneously on the twenty-four screens, followed by ‘tragedy’. He thought someone must have known that he was looking at these screens. The twenty-four  _ kanji _ felt like judging eyes of people he abandoned when he escaped the city. They were all looking down at him, twenty-four of them, twenty-four pair of eyes, twenty-four people.

The screen blinked and the image changed to a blackened ruin. The building was still standing, but the roof and one-third of the building had gone. The facade was charred, the windows were blown. On the screen, it reads:  at least twelve people were dead, twelve others were severely injured. The police were still investigating.

Shimamura took a step back. The police are still investigating, it said! They are showing the news anchor again, her mouth stretched and shrink, open and closed. She was fixated on the camera–no! She was looking at him, she wasn’t reading the news, she was cursing him. She was wishing the police come to Tokyo and catch him and put him on trial for surviving!

The lad tore his sight from the news and ran. He dashed past the crowd as fast as he could. He slipped between people and crossed the road five seconds before it turned red. He must run now. He had killed twelve people and injured twelve others to survive. How he wished that he had not survived at all, how he wished he was the one dying and they were the one surviving!

He stopped only when he arrived at the other end of the block. There he slipped into the nearest back alley and hid behind an unused vending machine. His breath was pacing, sweat drenched his face, hands, and back. He coughed and panted. 

“It’s alright,” he told himself as he leant on the wall. “It’s alright, you’re not in Meiseki, nobody will be after you here.”

_ You're safe. _

_ You're safe. _

_ You will be alright. _

His head began to clear up. Right, apart from a place to sleep and money to buy food, he would need to think of a way to hide, just in case they were looking for him. If he were to be declared dead, it would be hard to track him. He could take a new name, changed his look, and fabricated some stories. Better still if there is anyone who could give him any protection. Now he had just– 

“What the fuck!”

Shimamura gasped and turned so fast, he nearly slipped and fall if the wall wasn’t there behind him. Apparently, someone had come there to smoke as he was resting and both of them didn’t see each other. The man must have thought he was a ghost or better still, a wild cat.

“Fuck, I thought you were a ghost or something.” The man cursed and massaged his nose. His glasses bobbed up and down along with his finger.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–” the lad instantly bowed ninety-degree deep. His eyes caught something as he bowed. The man had lost a third of his little finger.

“Yeah, yeah, Gosh, I thought I was gonna die, fuck. What are people doing in this kind of place.”

‘You should ask yourself too, dear sir.’ Shimamura thought to himself. He was still bowing, but now his heart was pounding hard, not because he was afraid of this man hurting him, but because here he saw a chance presents itself.

They say God worked in a mysterious way, perhaps even this one.

“My deepest apologies,” Shimamura said again. He straightened himself. He looked at the man with his lips bitten. Now he could take a closer look. This man, seemingly in his forties, could be easily mistaken as just an ordinary salaryman, perhaps except for his extravagant taste for gold. He had a gold watch and gold chain bracelet that seemed to stand too much in contrast with his shirt. Other than that he seemed perfectly normal. His hair was not dyed, his glasses were just normal, rectangular, thick-framed glasses. No tattoos on his neck or the back of his hand. 

“Sir,” Shimamura started again.

“What?”

“My apologies for having startled you and then asking for this in such a blunt manner, but good sir, I see you are of a distinguished person and I am looking for any job.” 

Shimamura gulped his saliva, then went on, “perhaps you are in need for an assistant, I may be of service….”

The man stared at the daring lad. The smoke from his cigar danced quietly in front of his face. Shimamura could see his eyes moving up and down as if measuring his height by sight.

“Any job?” he asked.

“Any job, sir.”

The man took out a silver box and crushed his cigarette there. He slid it close with two fingers.

“Follow me,” he gestured to the lad, “I know a good one.”


	7. A Familiar Place

Shimamura groaned and rolled on his bed. His hand blindly searched for the ringing phone underneath his pillow. With eyes still half closed, he peeked at the time and the calling number. The number was saved on his phone with a single letter “g”, and it was 7 a.m. in the morning. 

“Hm.” He picked up the call rather groggily, with a response came lazier than intended.

“Good morning Mr. Manager! Got an emergency report to make.”

“Make it quick.”

“Alright, alright. We're set to receive some goods through Meiseki port, remember? But lately, the company we're working with gets questioned or so—”

_ Ah, Meiseki again. _

“—and the shipment is probably gonna be delayed.”

“Can't we pay them to shut up or something?” Shimamura sat up and leaned to the wall next to his bed. The early morning light was leaking through the blind and illuminated the spot, warming his naked back.

“The thing is, the police had been investigating shipments from Meiseki so chances are they aren't taking the risks. Ah— yeah, they are checking the ship's load one by one too.”

“Hmm,” the young man rubbed his eyes and yawned. It's a problem now. “So if they find out what's below their fishes...”

“they’re probably going to make a report, yeah.”

“I see… _ ” So annoying _ . 

“So?”

“I will go there and see what I can do. I may be able to catch the earliest plane tomorrow and be there in the morning.” Shimamura sighed and tossed his blanket aside. It's a good excuse to stroll around and see how stuff may have changed after ten years, after all. 

“Alright, let me know the time and I'll pick you up from the airport.”

“Hm, mm. See you tomorrow.” Shimamura ended the call. He dropped his phone, snatched his blanket and fell on his back. Fuck work, he's too sleepy to even think about breakfast. Not even a minute later his breath had grown slow and steady again. 

* * *

The plane cabin was full of murmurs and soft hums of the jet engines. The seatbelt signs had been turned on and the descending announcement had just passed. While the flat attendants were busy checking every windows and seatbelt, Shimamura was casually leaning on the window with his nose stuck in his book. The title read ‘The Catcher in the Rye,’ a translated work, and he was in the middle of it.

This man loved books. They were his refuge, his salvation, his teacher. When he was still a lad he would spend hours reading in the library and behind the convenience store cashier counter. When he was an  _ urisen _ —rent boy—he would sneak to libraries and bookstores to read a bit of fiction and self-help. Even now, when he had earned himself a bit of spare time he would tuck himself on the corner of his bed and read. 

The plane shook gently as it made its landing, forcing the brunet to stop reading as it was getting too shaky. Only then he checked the window and realized it was drizzling and quite a thick mist had descended upon the town. Part of him was relieved that at least one thing about Meiseki had not changed. This small town had always been enveloped in thick fog during rainy days and winter. One cannot see far in such days, but to him, the gloom brought about a comfort he couldn't really explain. 

_ Nostalgic, huh. Welcome back. _

The small airport was not exactly packed, but the smaller space made it looked busy. Shimamura stopped by the tiny duty-free shop and bought a bar of chocolate and a bottle of whiskey on his way out. He regretted bringing about a duffel bag instead of anything wheeled for the trip. The bag was too small to pack the whiskey in, and now he had to hold two separate bags at the same time. 

He made his way out nevertheless. Through the crowds, he caught the sight of a familiar lad clad in the brightest clothes he’s ever seen. Upon seeing him, the lad rushed and gave him a deep bow–to which he simply replied with a simple bow–and offered to help him with his luggage. 

Shimamura gave him the shopping bag instead. “ A gift,” he said.

“Huh?”

“A gift, I said. For you.” Shimamura shoved the paper bag to his hand, chuckling at the shock. “Don’t finish them all in one go, ok?”

The lad peeked at the inside and instantly brightened up, but then frowned. “do you mean this for the boss?”

“No, for you. Don't tell the boss I give you this.” Shimamura placed his forefinger in front of his mouth and patted the lad on the back.

“But…!”

“Shh.”

The lad dropped his arguments, gave him another bow and insisted to take his bag. He refused. The lad kept on insisting until Shimamura finally gave in.

“Suzuki-san, you don't have to do this, you know,” the brunet said as the lad took his bag.

“It's my job! I am just a junior after all.” Suzuki insisted. One of his teeth was missing, and when he smiled, his eyes made perfect curving lines. Still, there was something rigid about him, about his smile.

He led him to a silver sedan parked on the airport basement and took the driver's seat. Shimamura took the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt. He watched the lad next to him started the car and set up the radio to a jazzy tune.

“You drive well, right?” he asked.

“Of course, please be assured” The lad smiled and carefully stepped on the gas. “But Shimamura-san… you really shouldn't be too nice, you know.”

“Why?”

“Some people will misuse that. The boy whose little finger you refused to cut is getting a little cocky, and people are talking–”

“What they're saying?”

“Shimamura-san is too soft and is unfit to work in this field. Some others say Shimamura-san is so fake and pretentious....”

_ Of course, of course, that is the truth.  _

The man in question simply smiled as he watched the trees running outside their windows, head propped on his palm. The gossips were not news, and he believed they had a grain of truth. He  _ was _ pretentious and fake. All his kindness was merely an act he copied and learned from others. Behind all those nice façades he was no more than a murderer, a thief, a misfitting criminal and perhaps even a shunned sociopath. It's not that he's too soft to work in this field, he's just good at play-pretend. 

“Well, maybe they’re right,” he muttered. 

Silence slipped between them. As it grew awkward, Suzuki once again tried to ask a question–wondering how his day had been, or perhaps the older man knew a girl he could date? He received no answer. For a second the lad thought Shimamura was mad, maybe at the news of people talking about him, or maybe at his questions. Until he took a glance and found out he was, in fact, had fallen asleep with his hands crossed and head leaning on the window. It seemed like the warmth from the heater and the rocking car had lulled him to slumber. 

They were heading toward the west port, Meiseki’s main fishery port at the other part the town. The place's fish market had earned its fame, but it is also a well-known fact that it has been serving as an entrance for yakuza controlled drugs trade. Even the police know, hence the occasional raid when things are getting out of their control or if there's a report coming in. 

The airport was at the other part of the city, making the car trip an uninterrupted forty minutes driving, during which Shimamura spent sleeping. Suzuki gently tapped his arm when the wharf began to emerge from the end of the road. When it couldn’t wake Shimamura up, he shook him rather carefully, feeling weird at the physical contact. 

“We’re almost there,” Suzuki said.

Shimamura raised his head and tried to rub sleep off his eyes. He yawned and then apologized, to which Suzuki awkwardly replied with a simple and formal assurance. Silence filled the car again, less awkwardly this time as Shimamura was still very drowsy. Perhaps he was tired from the early flight, or perhaps he was tired for some other reason.

Shimamura had noises in his head that he couldn’t silence. Sometimes they were just quite whispering that sound like white noises, sometimes they were cackling and mockery. In some days he could take them like they are background noises. Other days they were loud enough to drive him crazy. But, the noise had always been there. Just like the loneliness gnawing on him on and off as it pleases, the noises had been serving as both assurance and bother as it finds convenient. 

The car made its way to a hotel's entrance. One of the porters immediately rushed to open the car's door, bowing deep as Shimamura made his way out and into the lobby. He checked in, gave the earlier porter and the bellboy a tip, then went off to his room. 

The hotel was a mix of Japanese traditional inn and a western hotel. Perhaps it used to be a ryokan. The entrance and the central garden still carried the remnants of the traditional architecture, but the lobby, though designed in all wood, was contemporary. Their rooms were wide and the beds low. The floor was still covered in tatami mats, yet the bathroom was clad in marble.

Shimamura opened the window of his room and lit a cigarette. He sat on the table and looked out, watching the birds hopping on the fences of the garden. He took a drag and puffed out a trail of smoke. From between them, he could see a couple taking a stroll on the path cutting across the garden. The rain had just stopped, leaving the stone path wet and glossy. 

_ One day, instead of water, it will be the fire that rains down this town. _

_ And instead of laughter, there will be cries. _

The man took the last drag of his cigarette and put it off on the porcelain ashtray. He watched the last glow of the fire flickered and died down, then hopping off the table and closed the window. He changed clothes and coat, checked his watch, then left for the lobby again. 

He took the stairs down, for his room was only on the third floor and the hotel was not a high rise building. Right at the end of the stairs, Suzuki had been waiting. He looked restless. He was looking around, biting his nail and hunched his shoulder. Shimamura called. Suzuki turned, and upon seeing the man descending the stairs, he brightened up almost immediately.

“Boss had been waiting. You know how he hates waiting.”

Shimamura cringed and walked past Suzuki to the lobby. There sitting on the lounge among other tourists and guests was a man in a velvet suit. In front of him was a cup of half-drunk tea, and next to him was a cane made out of dark oak and silver head. He may have had wrinkles across his face and his hair may be all white, but he sat as straight as his cane, and his eyes still held the same vigor as a young hawk.

“Sir.” Shimamura walked up to him and bowed ninety-degree deep. “My apology for keeping you waiting. It was rude of me.”


	8. Human-shaped Toy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning!**  
>  Mild (homosexual) sexual content. Mild language. Prostitution scene. Mention of drugs.

**2003**.

“Ah.” The black haired boy let his body dropped on the bed. His breath was pacing and his heart drumming. Sweat drenched his half-naked body; each bead reflected the dim, reddish illumination of the small room. Hovering above him was a man in his fifties. He was sweating too. His shirt was unbuttoned and he had a huge grin plastered on his face.

The older man pulled Shimamura by his leg and flipped him over like he was a doll. A minute later he was clutching on the bed's thin sheet, faking moans, and pretended to enjoy the pounding on his bottom. To be honest, it was not that bad, albeit a little painful.

The man he met the other day brought him here. At first, he was dejected. He was born and raised in a slum among prostitutes. Hell, his mother was a prostitute and they all had told him to stay away from such business if he could. Yet, he had practically no choice now. Renting out his body was a much better option than dying on the street. So he signed the contract. By the next day, he stood in a line behind the bar counter and men picked him up like he was a drink from the menu. In a sense, he was. He worthed no more than a glass of cocktail one drink to sate their thirst. They would specify their preference. and he would lead them to the back room. And then, they would please themselves with his body. Then, they would pay the price and leave. He would stand again behind the bar along with the other prostitutes for another man to pick. Rinse and repeat. He was nothing more than a human-shaped toy.

The client hiring him this time paid by cash. Shimamura brought him his coat and scarf. As he dusted a speck of dirt from the coat, the young man slipped a bag of powder into the coat, then casually offered to help his client put them on. The old man nodded curtly. He offered his hands so that the lad can put them on for him.

“Have a good evening, sir.” Shimamura smiled and gave a deep bow as the man left.

The smile vanished as soon as his client left the place. A deep sigh took its place instead. He felt his own pocket. Now that's some cash to save.

That's it for tonight. The bar was closing for the day and it's finally time to rest. The young man bowed and congratulate everyone for their hard work, then climbed the stairs to the tiny flat above the bar. While he waited for others to shower, he wrote down the total income he had from selling his body and a few grams of meth, counting the cash, and smiled as he found out he probably had enough to buy an elementary Chinese language textbook on the second-hand bookstore he often frequented.

Someone peeked from the top of their bunk bed, watching Shimamura jotting down all his income and expenses. The young man looked up and raised his brows, wordlessly asking if he needed anything.

“Hey, show me the card trick from yesterday.”

“Which one?” Shimamura tilted his head, trying to remember. He then took out a crumpled pack of card from behind his pillow, poured the cards out, and began to shuffle it.”

“The one where you suddenly took the card out from my collar.”

“Ah.” Shimamura placed the card on the bed while his friend climbed down. The boy squatted and propped his head on the bed while Shimamura showed him several cards. With a flip of his hand, he hid one of the cards, then acted as if he found it behind his collar.

“Where did you learn such thing, really.” The boy whistled and took the card Shimamura used earlier. It was just a normal queen of spade, nothing was attached to it, except perhaps a crease at the upper part of the card.

“Someone made a video explaining all the tricks.” Shimamura placed all the card back into the box. He was all smile, proud of his little skill.

Card trick was his hobby, perhaps, but it helped with something else. The man that brought him to the place was a part of the biggest gang in the area. Their businesses formally included gambling, nightclub, and human resources, but behind the curtain, they traded meth and cocaine. For Shimamura, that’s where the skill came in handy. The weight and the shape might be different, but the basic skill would the same, right? So he steeled his will and went up to the same man who brought him there, He asked to be a part of the trade and even persuaded the man to let him keep a few thousand yen for himself. He promised to sell a good few grams every week.

“The shower room is available, Yasu.” His bed-mate called.

“Okay, okay.” The man took the remaining card and place them all back. He then handed it to his friend in case he wanted to play with it for a while. Some of the boys had developed difficulty sleeping, so sometimes they would entertain themselves by playing a game of card or two.

By the time he finished showering, his bedmate was already half asleep. He quietly climbed next to him and fit himself in the remaining space. Their back was sticking to each other. He couldn't move much else he would fall. The blanket was so thin he needed to wear a jacket to bed, but hey, at least it was a bed to sleep on and a room to take shelter in.

His alarm rang at exactly eight thirty in the morning. The boy rolled and turned it off. He wished he had more time to sleep, but the last time he slept in, he ended up missing one day of work and had to take some cash from his hard-earned savings. Plus he got a scold.

 _It will be over before you know it._ He told himself as he staggered to the bathroom to wash his face. The bathroom light was rather dim and the tap creaked as he pulled the head, but the cold water was as just as fresh. It washed the sleepiness away.

The boy packed his bag. He found a leftover chocolate bar from a few days ago on the base of his backpack–that’s his breakfast. A message came in. He checked it and typed out a short answer before heading out.

He managed to get a second job. On half the weekdays and on Saturdays he worked as a cashier and store assistant in an art shop, whose owner ran an underground tattoo shop somewhere else nearby. He doubled as the cleaning boy in the studio sometimes.

The owner of the place was a woman and she was nice. She had a full sleeve tattoo. She wore a whole row of silver earrings along her hears and she completely shaved her head. Not even a single strand of hair was left. She wore bright clothes too, or even yukata, and sometimes her clothes are brighter than the one sold in Harajuku vintage shop. Upon their first meeting, Shimamura thought she would spit swear like one use comma in their sentences. He had shaking feet and practically bit his thumbs to its end because of that. Turns out she was really polite. She would shake his hand, gave him a pat, and even everything she calls him, she would make sure she uses polite sentences.

The young man felt kinda bad for having the wrong first impression. He gave it a thought over and over again. He couldn’t understand. Miss tattoo shop knew that she would be judged based on her appearance. She must have known. It’s impossible for her to not know–she’s not a foreigner! Then why did she still do what she’s doing? Could it be that she’s just like him, trapped in this situation with no way out?

Shimamura halted in his track to watch the morning news displayed outside an electronics store. The news anchor wore a very nice suit. He had a square jaw and straight, bushy brows that kept on going up and down as he spoke to the camera. The running text below him talked about the highest employment rate among youth ever, and the number is expected to take a positive growth in the next quarter.

The lad sighed and slipped in between people wearing nice suits and coat. Someone wore a very nice perfume. He caught his own reflection on the store window. His sweater was a little too loose for his skimpy body; his jeans too. The sole of his sneaker had started to peel off the base, and there was mud on it.

He shrugged his shoulders and head to a small street between two clothing shop. A stair led him downstairs and less than a minute later, he found himself knocking and pushed a dark wooden door with small window pane on the top.

Today she wore a bright pink jacket with a neon yellow band on her sleeves. She had pencils on between her hands. Her eye bags were deep and dark even as she smiled at him. Shimamura could smell coffee in the air too. A soft rock tune echoed in the room.

The boy smiled and bowed at the lady sketching on her desk and proceed to placed his bag at the back of the studio. He took off his sweater, shoved it inside his backpack and proceed to take the mop lying nearby.

The clock struck ten-thirty when he finished mopping the floor and cleaned the tables and chairs. The sun had risen high too. He returned the cleaning stuff, put on his sweater back and rushed to the street again. There at the end of the street was a small ‘art shop’ with various transfer tattoo, phone cases, and prints. The tattoo shop lady owned the place. He was at first accepted as the clerk there before she found out he actually had some experiences in accounting and cashiering. He worked there almost eight hours a day, studying languages between breaks and when there was no visitor coming. He would then close the store, went back home, and served several clients until the bar’s closing time.

Today, just right in time after he rushed down to the bar after a quick shower, a man in a white suit and checkered shirt came in. He wore around his neck two gold chains, and around his wrists, two gold watches. A slim cigarette hung from between his lips, a neatly trimmed mustache framed them. Behind him was a shorter man with a navy suit and a bright, leaf-patterned shirt. He had a strong, squarish jawline. His hair was pulled back, dyed blond. A tiny scar marked his upper lips.

“Sir,” Shimamura brightened up at the sight of the man. He quickly came around and bowed ninety-degrees deep. The man waved his hand and told him to fetch a bottle of whiskey and some coke to their table, to which, the lad promptly follow. He also brought over a platter of fried cuttlefish, as well as a plate of dried snack for their drinking snack, The guest took interest in him. As he bent over to arrange the plate, he began groping on his buttocks. Surprised, Shimamura nearly dropped his tray, even though it’s not his first time getting groped while serving a guest.

_Disgusting._

The man simply turned and flashed a smile at his molester. He said nothing, neither a protest nor an acceptance at the behavior. Yet, he learned that sometimes, getting groped is a signal that he may be able to get a customer to sleep with him. As Shimamura finished arranging the drinks and plates, he turned to bow specifically at the man, then gave him a coy wink as he straightened himself to leave for the bar counter again.

Another man entered the bar, the boys promptly rose from their seat and shouted the welcome greetings. They stood in a row, plastic smile plastered on their face as the man scrutinized them one by one.

Shimamura was halfway returning to the bar counter from delivering a drink when he was called by the two men. He went, then promptly offered to refill the glass when he saw the glasses were both empty. They accepted the offer, and the man in the white suit told him to take a seat.

“a friend of mine, Kobayashi,” the man in white suit said.

The boy smiled as he took his seat next to Kobayashi, the man in the navy suit and slicked back hair. Kobayashi told him to have a drink. At first, the boy refused, but he eventually received a glass of his own and joined in for the drink. The older man placed his hand behind him, on his waist as he talked. Shimamura carefully leaned on the man as he rocked his own glass. These men like boys to fawn them. To be showered praises, to be served. That’s his job when he’s just sitting around them.  
  
They were talking about businesses. About Vietnam and Thailand, and Indonesia, countries whose name he only read in books but could not even dream of visiting. They were saying stuff about sourcing meth there, and how the shutting down of one farm troubled their trading. The fact that they need to hire locals to translate for them also made everything twice as complicated.

Ah, so the drugs he was selling came from there.

“What language do they speak, tho?” Shimamura asked, nudging on his prospective client side like a little boy.

“Local language, English, and Chinese.” Kobayashi pulled him closer and chuckled. “Why? You can do any?”

“Oh, I’m learning Chinese,” the boy said. He let the man touching his asses and thighs again, “maybe give me half a year or so and you can get a personal translator that… you know, provides _extra services_.”

Kobayashi’s laughter broke. He turned to the man in a white suit and slapped him on the shoulder, saying, “Kanemura! What a fine boy you have here!”

“I know. I know. He’s your type.” Kanemura rubbed his shoulder and took a sip of his drink.

“I will give you about a year, then!” Kobayashi turned at Shimamura. He then began to scrutinize the boy’s face, lifting his chin and grabbing his jaw. The boy could smell alcohol, cigarette, and perfume from the man. His stomach began to churn, his heart drummed like it wanted to escape his ribs. He’s scared. Almost a year at this job and he’s still scared. Still, he kept up the prettiest smile he could manage.

“But before that, what’s the menu? What services are you giving?”

“Oh! A lot, sir, and customizable,” the boy replied, “blow job, bondage, BDSM? You can tie me up and do anything, I’ll be accommodating.”

_As long as I don’t get killed._

“Fair enough,” Kobayashi nodded to himself.

“Why don’t you take him to the back room and try him out.” Kanemura took the pack of cigarette lying on the table and shook it. He took one out with his teeth. “Make sure you pay for it though. This business doesn’t run on a free trial.”

Shimamura led the man to the back of the bar and into a small room. Once the door is locked, the older–and bigger–man pushed him onto the bed and straddled the boy. He was soon stripped bare, his feet dangling in the air.


End file.
